Free City of Ice by Laurence Yep Page A

wherever they had gone in the caravanserai, but it was strangely silent here. Perhaps it was some quirk of the construction or, Scirye wondered, it was the power of the goddess.
    Actually, the statue of Nanaia was the last thing that Scirye wanted to see. In her grief and anger over Nishke’s death, Scirye had rashly promised Nanaia that she would pay any cost in exchange for the goddess’s help in recovering her people’s treasure and avenging her sister’s death. Scirye hadn’t really expected the goddess to grant her wish, and now that Nanaia seemed to be, what price was Scirye going to have to pay? Scirye didn’t want to be reminded of that hasty vow.
    When Roxanna opened the double set of doors, they looked into a dim room lit only by fire imps perched in a few wall sconces. The floor here was covered with tiles of rich orange and the walls and ceilings were covered with murals of the goddess’s life in the same bright colors as the rest of the caravanserai’s living quarters.
    To Scirye’s right was a large picture of an ancient emperor trying to drink from a cup even as its contents turned into ribbons of steam about his head. It was the tale of the ruler who had promised Nanaia that if she would give him good weather so he could build irrigation canals, he would give part of the newly created fields to her temple. And when he had conveniently forgotten his oath, he found one day that liquid would hiss away as a steam whether it touched his lips or hands. It was said he had gone mad before he died of thirst.
    On the opposite wall was the image of a man in gorgeous robes looking amazed as he stared at a mirror and fingered the huge horns growning from his head. That was the story of the wealthy man who had sworn to Nanaia that he would tithe a medical clinic if she would only save a very valuable breeding bull that was sick. When his animal recovered, this man, too, had had a lapse of memory—only to find one morning that a pair of horns had sprouted from his head. Everywhere in the shrine were reminders of what happened to those who did not keep their word to Nanaia.
    How would Nanaia punish her if she failed to carry out her end of the bargain—even though the odds against success seemed so overwhelming?
    Bayang had been watching her. “Just remember what I told you before: When Nanaia does something, she doesn’t always take your interests into account.”
    It was on the tip of Scirye’s tongue to ask to go someplace else. But eager to show them her family shrine, Roxanna pulled at Scirye’s wrist.
    â€œPlease, Lady, don’t be shy. Come see the goddess.”
    It was either fall or follow Roxanna, so Scirye stumbled forward on stiff legs until she was standing before the four-foot-high statue of Nanaia astride her lion. Scirye shuddered. It was Nanaia the Avenger.
    When they depicted Nanaia, the Kushans showed the gentler side of the goddess—the one who helped crops to grow and kept order among humans as if they were unruly children. But this Sogdian statue was the touchier Nanaia who punished those who broke the law or their oaths—like the one Scirye had made.
    Scaled armor had replaced the soft gowns of the Kushans’ statues and the heavenly flames about Nanaia’s head and shoulders looked like swords and arrowheads. Gone was the elegant tiara. Instead, there was a helmet with a wide brim that curled downward. In one hand, She held a staff with a horse’s head. In her other hands, She carried the spear, the bow, and the arrows that She used to carry out her vengeance.
    Pressing her palms flat in front of her, Roxanna bowed formally three times as Kles fluttered down from Scirye’s shoulder to the stones.
    â€œExquisite, simply exquisite,” the griffin said softly. “I see the Persian influence in the carving of the face. It’s so…”
    â€œStern,” Scirye said, gazing upward. This was the face of